Page 106 of Under Cover
Harman reached up and grabbed the handles, hauling himself up to check out the roof. He whispered, “All clear,” before completing the chin-up, the comm box and tablet strapped to his back. Garcia went next, and when he got to the top, he and Harm crouched to give Crosby the assist when he had to pull himself up.
Crosby took the aid, but when he was on the roof, he held up a finger and doubled over, throwing up water before glaring at Harm.
“I’ve seen junkies,” he panted, “get up with one shot of Narcan and toddle off to their next fucking fix. The fuck is this?”
Harm sighed and cracked a water from his bag, handing it over. “Well, you piss on the slush by the side of the road, nobody notices,” he said testily. “You, my friend, were like the fresh, virginal, newfound snow in the middle of the woods. And first a dinosaur stomped on it, and then someone pissed meth and fentanyl all over it. Your body can fucking tell.”
“Nnnggh!”
Garcia let him express his frustration for a minute before they all stood and hunched over, heading for the spot on the roof with the ultimate view.
“Here, let me,” Crosby murmured, reaching for the tools to bolt the frame of the long gun to the roof. It took him less than thirty seconds, and then he set his Maglite on the ground and took the gun out of the case. Carefully, scowling in concentration, he cleaned and assembled the gun, going at warp speed. Garcia and Harman looked on, and Garcia knew his own eyebrows were raised because he didn’t think he’d ever seen Crosby so efficient.
“I had to,” Crosby murmured when he was done. “It’s the gun from the FBI unit—I don’t know it. You gotta get acquainted or they tend to buck and bite, you know?”
“Are you trying to make me jealous of a gun?” Garcia asked.
“Is it working?” Crosby’s grin and wink in the beam from the Maglite reassured him somehow.
“Yes. Now roll over so we can set a tarp under and over you. We’ve got dark gray—”
“Bottom,” Crosby muttered, rocking back on his heels and letting Garcia work.
“And light gray for the top,” Harm murmured. “Fair. You’ll blend right into the roof. Here’s some water, some trail mix, and your tablet and charger.” He set everything out so Crosby didn’t have to stand up completely and organize before he and Garcia army-crawled back to the ladder. “Clint says he wouldn’t trust anyone else to back him up this way. I trust you too.”
Crosby grunted and grabbed his night-vision goggles, the better to scope out the proceedings. “I probably won’t need you all to show your IDs—none of the workers are wearing black, so we can be invisible.” He tapped a button on the tablet. “Comms set,” he said. “Earbuds on. Thing One and Thing Two are getting into position.”
The others counted off, using the Thing designation, and Harm turned to go.
Garcia paused, just long enough to squeeze Crosby’s shoulder. Crosby turned his head and winked. “Got your back,” he mouthed.
“You’d better,” Garcia told him softly, before following Harman Blodgett into the night.
“HE’S OKAY,right?” Garcia asked Harm after they’d worked their way to their position near the front of the warehouse—in the shadows of course. There was enough clatter and clamor coming from the guys unloading pallets inside the door to drown out death-metal karaoke, but Garcia still whispered in Harm’s ear.
“You gotta remember,” Harm muttered, making himself damned invisible back against the warehouse behind a stack of pallets. “Most people couldn’t do that,period. He’s tired. A few days, lots of electrolytes, he’ll be fine.”
Garcia grunted, and they both concentrated on what was going on with the others.
“Ricky,” Iliana murmured, pissing Garcia right off because that wasn’t his name. “Denison’s got a license plate with a government tag she’s sending you. I got pictures. Can you ID that?”
“Roger that, Thing Six. Give me a minute and…. Thing Four’s internet upgrades for the win.”
“Thank you, Olaf,” Pearson murmured softly.
“Good job, Elsa. That is a government-issue vehicle leased out to… any guesses?”
“Marcy Beauchamp,” Natalia said. “Very cool. Sending you photos. Start assembling a file so Clint can wake up a judge when all this is through.”
“Can do,” Crosby murmured. “Adding pictures of the warehouse, including those giant pallets containing plastic-wrapped bricks of white powder you can see being stacked in the doorway.”
“Everybody hush,” Harding ordered, and the sudden silence on the line was louder than the noise coming in from the warehouse.
There was quiet for a moment, and Garcia was pretty sure Harman was trying to grow eyes in the back of his head—detachable ones he could roll around to trace Harding’s movements. Theycouldhear him moving, his breath coming in harsh pants, and what sounded like a window opening.
“Shit,” Harding hissed. “Shit shit shit shit shit, there’s an alarm. I think it’s time delayed. I see them, they’re breathing, but we’ve got about thirty seconds—”
“Garcia, Blodgett,” Crosby called, “Pearson, Swan, go in, make a fuss, start arresting people, give him cover in three, two, one—”